


Brother

by woodelf



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Before we knew it was Gideon, Gen, Neal is dead but his spirit is very much present, Originally Posted on Tumblr, rumbaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodelf/pseuds/woodelf
Summary: Bittersweet future Rumbaby fic. I deliberately didn't choose a name so it could remain canon-compliant if we got a girl.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Rumbelle child & Neal Cassidy (deceased), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold and Original Child Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this illustration by writingwolfwithin: https://writingwolfwithin.tumblr.com/post/141731022528
> 
> Neal's rose is the Tequila Sunrise rose.

“Hi, Neal.” The eleven-year old girl sat down on the warm grass in front of the stone, all slim long limbs and coltish grace, and began tracing the letters of her brother’s name. It was part of the ritual. She’d done it the very first time they’d brought her here, her parents said, a toddler just learning to walk and holding on to the stone for balance. She’d started at the very first letter of “beloved” and methodically followed the lines of each letter until she’d reached the “y” of Cassidy. She wasn’t sure if she actually remembered it herself or she’d just heard the story so many times that it felt like a real memory. She’d known how to spell her brother’s name before she could write her own.

“I came by myself this time.”

It was the first time she’d come alone, always before it had been with her parents, the first day of every month. Her father would tell Neal all the news, usually starting with how Henry was. Henry had gone to college, Henry had graduated, Henry had come home and was working as a journalist at _The Storybrooke Mirror_. She remembered being little, and leaning back against her father’s legs, his arms around her shoulders, being asked if there was anything she wanted to tell her brother. He felt just as much a part of her family as her parents and Henry, even if she’d never actually met him. It was family time, a visit to the grave followed by a picnic or a stop at the ice cream shop or Granny’s, where Dad would tell her stories about Neal. She knew most of them by now, but she still liked hearing them anyway. Sometimes she would even chime in and take over the telling of the story, which always seemed to please him. 

She had asked once, as she grew older, how Neal could hear them if he was dead.

_“His body died,” her father had explained, softly. “His soul didn’t. Emma saw him once. He said he was someplace where he was happy. And while I don’t know if he can hear us, I figure if there’s anyplace from which our voices can reach him, it’d be here, where his body lies. And I won’t have him thinking we’ve forgotten him.”_

_“Like the way you have to move your radio sometimes to improve the reception?” she had asked after thinking for a moment.  
_

_“Exactly.” He had beamed at her.  
_

It made sense to her, and it felt perfectly natural and normal to be talking to a headstone. She didn’t just see the stone, she saw Neal, in her mind’s eye.

“I had a dream about you.” She sat back, cross-legged and comfortable in her shorts and t-shirt and a white straw hat to keep the sun off, her brown hair done up in pigtails and going down her back. “You came into the room, and smiled at me, and hugged me. And I felt…surrounded by love. I wish I could have known you.”

She looked at the rose bush, growing behind the headstone. She remembered when the roses had been yellow, like Emma’s Bug. Henry had picked out the colour. And then had come the spring when the brown branches had not quickened with green, when the bush had remained bare and lifeless. She remembered how stricken her father had been, and how her mother had taken charge and shepherded them all to the nursery, Henry included. She had wandered up and down the rows of small rose bushes, none with more than a few flowers at most, holding onto Henry’s hand. He had offered to let her pick out the colour of the new bush, and she had somehow known that she was being entrusted with something important, that it mattered that she get it right. She’d liked the peachy-pink ones best for herself, but she wasn’t sure they were right for Neal. And then she’d known the instant she’d seen it.

_“Henry!” She had stopped immediately and pointed to a bush with vibrant golden yellow roses tipped with orangey-red along the edges, so that each petal looked like a flame. “Look! A fire rose!”_

_And Henry had understood at once, his whole face lighting up. “For Baelfire.” He had stooped and given her a swift hug. “It’s perfect.” He’d then turned and called out to the others, a few rows over. “Grandpa! Belle! We’ve found Dad’s rose!”_

The bush had been bought and planted with due ceremony, with a small spell to repel pests and diseases this time. It had grown and thrived, to the point that last year they had taken a cutting of it which now was growing in their backyard at home. The original had come with a label bearing another name, but no one ever used it. It was a fire rose, Neal’s fire rose.

“I suppose it was the family tree we’re making at school that made me dream you,” she said thoughtfully. “Dad got out the old photo albums, the ones with pictures of you.” She fell silent for a moment, wishing that smiling, friendly-looking man in the photographs could have been a part of her life. “Anyway, the family tree was easy until I had to add in Regina. ‘Cause, like, Snow is Henry’s grandmother, but she’s also Regina’s stepdaughter, so she’s also Henry’s sister as well? It got complicated real fast. Mom had to help me because my tree was getting messy.”

She leaned back on her hands, enjoying the peace and quiet, the air filled with the scent of green grass and the roses and the lilac bush growing nearby. Her eyes began to pick out all the spent blooms on the rose, though, and she jumped to her feet. “I’d better get to work; Mom and Dad will get worried if I’m gone too long.”

She went to her bike and took her sand pail out of its basket, pulling on the gardening gloves that she’d gotten for her birthday (white with green frogs) and picking up her pruning shears. She carefully trimmed off all the wilting roses, filling the pail, then dumped them in the trash container at the end of the cemetery and filled the bucket at the water spigot, carrying it back to the rose bush. Normally it managed well enough on its own, but they’d been having a dry spell lately and her father had been worried about it. That’s when she had spoken up and volunteered to go water and deadhead it. She made two more trips with her bucket, then stood back and surveyed the bush with satisfaction.

“There. That looks better now.” She glanced at the gravestone and her shoulders slumped a little. “You probably can’t hear me,” she admitted realistically. “You probably wouldn’t even know who I was if we ever met.”

But then she straightened and lifted her chin in the determined manner that her parents had come to recognise quite early on in her life. “But that’s okay. Because I would know _you._ And I’d march right up to you and say “Hi, Neal! I’m your sister,” and maybe I could get that hug then.”

It was probably her imagination, the feeling of a ghostly pair of arms encircling her from behind and hugging her tight. Just like in her dream, she felt a sudden wave of love wash over her, like someone was proud of her, and glad to know her. It was probably her imagination, because she wasn’t dreaming now, she was wide awake, yet she wasn’t in the least bit scared. She leaned back just a little, and swore she could feel a vague sense of pressure against her back.

She stood very still, eyes fixed on the name chiseled into the headstone. “I won’t forget,” she promised. “I won’t forget you, ever.”

After a moment the sense of a presence disappeared, and she dared at last to turn around. Nothing was there, but she hadn’t expected there to be. It didn’t matter. With a light heart and a grin on her face, she loaded her stuff back into her bike basket. She didn’t try again to tell herself that it had just been her imagination. Maybe it had been, maybe it hadn’t. She knew which she’d rather believe. She ran a hand over the headstone one last time before leaving. That was part of the ritual, too.

“Bye, Neal. See you later.” She wheeled her bike over the grass to the sidewalk and mounted, but she’d only gone a few yards when she saw a familiar black car parked along the side of the road and braked, coming to a stop. 

“Dad!” she yelled. “You said I could come alone!”

Rumpelstiltskin stuck his head out the open car window. “Well, you did, didn’t you? I just thought I’d come along and see how the rose was doing.”

“The rose is fine. Neal’s fine. I’m fine,” she retorted, knowing very well that he had been watching out for her. 

He looked at her curiously. “”Neal’s fine’?”

Oops. She bit her lip, thinking. A part of her wanted to keep what she had experienced private, something secret to think about and hug to herself. But a part of her also wanted to share it. 

“I…I just felt like Neal was there, with me. And that he was happy.”

Rumpelstiltskin smiled wistfully. “That’s nice, sweetheart. He would have loved you, I know. Do you want a ride home? I can put your bike in the trunk.”

“No, I’m okay. Dad, have you ever felt anything? Like Neal was there with you?”

He looked away for a moment, his eyes distant. “Once, when I was alone, I thought…But I assumed it was just wishful thinking.” He focused on her again.

“I thought that too at first,” she admitted.

“But you chose to believe which option made you happier, didn’t you?” he guessed.

She nodded.

He got out of the car. “There’s a message for me in there about being a cynical old man, isn’t there?” He lifted her hat for a moment to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Never stop believing in the things that make you happy. Run along home now; your mother’s waiting for you. I’m going to take a look at the bush and say hello to your brother. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Okay.” 

She climbed back on her bike and Rumpelstiltskin watched her ride away before turning and making his way into the cemetery. The fire rose looked strong and healthy. He stood in front of the headstone, trying to tune his senses into picking up anything out of the ordinary. He took a deep breath.

“Hey, Neal.” It made him glad to think that Neal knew about his little sister, but hard on the heels of that came a surge of grief that he wasn’t there to share her life, let alone be around to see his own son grow up. Rumpelstiltskin felt the familiar choking sensation in his throat; there was a reason he preferred not to come here by himself. But there was no one here now to see, so he didn’t fight the tears that welled up and rolled down over his cheeks. “Oh, son, how I miss you,” he whispered. 

This time, when he felt the sense of someone being there, he didn’t tell himself he was imagining things. He closed his eyes and concentrated, on the faint feeling of strong arms wrapping around his chest, and a bristly cheek pressed against his own, and his son’s voice inside his head, filling him with a sense of peace and comfort.

_“It’s okay, Papa, it’s okay.”_


End file.
